Make Believe

“But you haven’t been called to defend yourself before the HUAC.”

That remark gave me pause. My novels had covered a sweep of American geography-Chicago, Oklahoma, New England, Minnesota, Seattle, elsewhere-and I was praised as a robust chronicler of American life, my fiction a sweet hymn to American ingenuity, resilience, fortitude. I relished my reverential-if occasionally caustic and accusatory-love affair with the Republic…for which I certainly stood.

“I’m not worried,” I told her.

A long silence. “Edna, I had the strangest phone call.”

“From whom?”

“Larry Calhoun. He said he had a nasty fight with Sol. He said Sol accused him of being a snitch. Of naming names.”

I fumed. “Alice, he shouldn’t be bothering you at this time. The man has no scruples. What does he want from you?”

“He wanted to know what I’ve heard.”

“About what?”

“I don’t know. I gather Sol threatened to expose him.”

“That makes no sense.”

“I told him I didn’t want to talk about it.”

“The man makes me nervous.”

“He makes everybody nervous these days. The older he’s gotten the more…distant he’s become. Nowadays he’s running scared. Max could never understand the change in him.” Alice sighed. “Edna, I hung up on him.”

“Good for you.”

***

Early afternoon, back in a deck chair under an umbrella by the Sun Club Pool, I sipped iced tea and sorted through a batch of galleys for Giant, zooming in on typos in my epic of Texas oil and cattle and overweening ego. But Texas seemed so far removed from the tin-plated patina of Hollywood life. All that big sky and gushing oil wells and acres of buffalo grass seemed so alien from the plastic palm trees and piped-in Paul Whiteman strings. I missed Manhattan with its black-and-white grittiness, its taxi blare.

Instead, I drifted to the restaurant and ordered a sandwich and coffee. I daydreamed in the nearly empty room, and then spread out my galleys and got to work. Looking up, I suddenly realized that the palm trees lining the room possessed stuffed monkeys, peeking through the polished fronds. Echoes of Don the Beachcomber and that horrible evening. What was with Los Angeles? Did everything have to look like a zoo?

I was placing a mark in the margin when I heard someone grunt. Vaguely familiar and annoying, like a buzzing mosquito in your bedroom. My eye was riveted to a paragraph about some ugly Texas vainglorious boasting. Ten-gallon Stetson ego and ranch-hand swagger. I shivered. Another furor, this novel. Another state I’d risk my life visiting thereafter.

Like that vicious carping when Cimarron was published. All of Oklahoma ready to tar and feather me, the intrepid chronicler.

American Beauty. Colonial Connecticut. That book brought out the crazies. What did that Danbury newspaper spout? How dare a Jew vilify Connecticut? Nice touch. So much for my First Amendment rights.

My mind sailed to the Hollywood Ten, the blacklist, the dark shadow of accusation, the intolerance. Max, now dead. Murdered.

Something bothered me. Something nagged at me. I needed to do something about it…because, well, I’d come here to support Max. The fact that he was dead simply reinforced my resolve. Now a murderer needed to be identified.

Willy nilly, my mind shot to a ludicrous image: Liz Grable, overfed Oklahoma maiden, spewing lines from Cimarron during the legendary land rush. Liz the renegade Sooner, slathered in pancake makeup and hobbling on stiletto heels. What was her story? What part did she play in all of this?

The grunting got louder, immediately followed by a boyish titter. Tony and Ethan Pannis were at a table just beyond a bank of English ivy and flowering hibiscus. I put down my galleys when a third voice spoke up. It was Larry Calhoun’s. I hadn’t realized Max’s old friend and business partner-revealed by Sol as a paid informant for the Examiner-was friends with the Pannis brothers. Of course, there was no reason why not. After all, they all knew one another-friendships formed in the halcyon days of Hollywood, before war and coldness and backstabbing became the rule of the day.

Tony said little, save for the nervous ripple of laughter-someone uncertain of what was happening at his table. He suffered a brief assault of hiccoughs. Admonishing him to be still, Ethan was clearly irritated, talking in a measured voice. When he spoke, Larry Calhoun seemed tentative, unsure, his voice halting as though he were learning to speak after long silence. The reason was clear: he wasn’t happy. Eavesdropping, I leaned so far back in my seat that the waiter eyed me suspiciously and I feared toppling into the hibiscus planter, where, most likely, a stuffed marmoset was waiting to pounce on me. From fragments of chatter, I learned that Larry owned a small three-family rental in the valley, a modest investment from years back, now fallen into disrepair; and Larry was reluctantly deeding it over to Ethan for what he termed “a pittance.” This little luncheon was to finalize the deal. Ethan was handing over a check. His voice was ice cold. “You’re the one who came to me, so stop whining.”

Larry grumbled. “Only because I need cash.”

“Who cares?” Tony muttered.

“This has nothing to do with you,” Larry sneered. “Ethan, you got to bring Tony everywhere you go?”

“He’s my brother.”

“He’s a zero.”

Tony whined, “That ain’t nice.”

“Boys, boys.” Ethan admonished. “Let’s keep this civil.”

“It’s worth more than you…”

Ethan interrupted, icy. “You don’t have to sign this. You don’t have to take this check from me.”

Silence, then, “I got in over my head.” A tone of resignation, though mixed with anger.

Tony spoke up again. “Seems to me you still owe my dead brother Lenny some money. Didn’t you borrow from him?”

Larry’s voice was laced with venom. “That’s how I got in trouble. Through him. Your cutthroat brother. And it only got worse.”

“Who cares?” Tony said again.

Ethan spoke sharply. “Tony, shut up.”

“I want nothing more to do with any of you,” Larry announced.

Ethan, matter-of-fact, an edge to his voice, “Hey, you can walk away now. You think we want to see you? I told you to drop off the papers at the Paradise. My check was there waiting for you. We got sick of waiting for you.”

Larry wasn’t buying it. “Oh, really? I’m supposed to pick up a check from your resident drunk?”

Tony grumbled, “Screw you, Larry.”

Ethan’s voice dropped. “Okay, let’s all calm down. I’m here with a check. We can wrap this up now.”

I decided to be nosy, depositing my galleys into my purse, standing, adjusting the brocade jacket I’d worn and checking my three strands of pearls. I scurried around the hibiscus planter, and feigned surprise. Fancy meeting you here. Small world, wouldn’t you say? My, my, my. I was just one more Hollywood actress, the redoubtable Parthenia Hawks on the Cotton Blossom, intrusive fussbudget accosting some smarmy deckhands.

Everyone looked startled. Larry was frowning.

“May I join you?” I used Magnolia’s Southern drawl, syrupy and coy, the aging ingenue.

Clearly the answer was no, but I sat down anyway. Tony reprised his recent battle with hiccoughs, but beamed at me, as though I were an old friend. “Miss Ferber, you do pop up in places.”

“The pleasure is all yours, surely.”

“A little sarcastic, no?” Larry said.

“I wasn’t being sarcastic.”